


His Hands

by Purpleeyedmiss



Series: Imagine An Itch [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Asphyxiation, Bottom Hannibal, Canon Compliant, Choking, Dark Will, Dark Will Graham, Doggy Style, Dry Humping, Hand & Finger Kink, Hannibal Loves Will, M/M, Manipulative Will Graham, Masturbation, One Shot Collection, POV Hannibal Lecter, Season/Series 02, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Tension, Short One Shot, Top Will Graham, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Will Graham is a Tease, hannibal is a kinky bitch, it's only gonna get worse ladies and gentlemen, kind of, this is really self indulgent please don't judge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-21
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-04-05 16:30:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14048289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Purpleeyedmiss/pseuds/Purpleeyedmiss
Summary: ''Tell me, how would you do it?''''With my hands.''After a rather intriguing session with Will Graham, Hannibal becomes particularly drawn to the image of Will's hands, and the armrest they were resting on.





	His Hands

Hannibal found himself alone the second he closed the door behind Will, their session concluded; leaving nothing but the fresh memory of it lingering in the mimic of his office where all events happened. Often times, this particular mechanism of his mind was his comfort once he yearned after the memory of someone, or something, and the reliving of either was what he solely needed to satiate him and move on.

 

Yet, with Will, he had noticed time and time again that memories weren’t enough – hence why he had been so adamant to release him from prison: Hannibal admitted this now, even though he wasn’t entirely at peace with it, a foreign feeling to him, which had been happening at a higher frequency ever since their sessions between them started, many months ago.

 

What was once simply a sliver of distant, cold curiosity had made him pull closer to Will somehow, a charm unintended, something Will had been unaware of. Yet, there was confidence accompanying it now, something precise and deliberate, intent behind Will’s change of mind, and how he had begun to address him.

 

Although Hannibal wasn’t entirely certain of that intent, it did not matter much to him in the end. The way Will now stared back into his eyes with the same interest, the same avid curiosity for him, as he had told him just now – was everything Hannibal could have asked for. Not everything he would have predicted, but regardless, it was fulfilling to have reciprocity, to notice every detail of Will’s dedicated, seductive effort.

 

He noted then, as he was thinking all of this, that he had been pacing nonstop around the room, strangely shut off from his surroundings – another thing he wasn’t accustomed to, except when he did so consciously and deliberately. No, he had lost himself completely to the train of his thoughts, jumbled as they may be, making his body respond to it instead of his mind being acutely aware of its movements.

 

He stopped then, pausing so he could recount Will’s session in his vision. Closing his eyelids, for a moment, he breathed slowly, and once he opened them, he saw Will sitting in his respective armchair; as he had done so minutes ago. And in his own seat, he saw himself sitting there, a mimic that rivaled the likes of reality.

 

‘’ _Do you fantasize about killing me?_ ’’ his reflection spoke, repeating everything he had done as well, legs crossed and head slightly tilted in hungering interest.

 

Will spoke slowly in response, his features alike, his words and premeditated motions mimicked to a tee.

 

‘’ _Yes._ ’’ He confirmed, his eyes never leaving him.

 

Curious, his reflection asked:

 

‘’ _Tell me, how would you do it?_ ’’ A question he had always wanted to release from his sealed lips, unlocked by Will’s undoing and honesty, of his growing, violent desires towards him.

 

Gravely, Will’s vision answered, calculated, voice lowered, but not ashamed to whisper, speaking almost proudly.

 

‘' _With my hands_.’’

 

And with that, Hannibal looked at them as they lay, fingers sprawled against the armrest.

 

He gazed with his eyes running through and through the skin mending his knuckles together; how fingertips grazed softly, unmoving unto the dark, ebony, wood. They made their way to his veins next, not nearly as prominent as his own, but hints of them carving hidden paths underneath the layers of his skin. The tendons did so too, the occasional tensing of them all calling for Hannibal to lower himself to Will’s hold, while he imagined those hands elsewhere, using every last bit of their strength to crush him anyway he could.

 

At the unrealized thought of that scenario, Will’s image stood and approached not his equivalent in the other chair, but the real him – staring head on as if he had always been aware of his hidden creator. His hands rose to meet him, thumbs brushing tentatively against his throat, until his grasp quickly swirled around his neck, fingers tightening it slowly.

 

Hannibal gasped, but only barely, his breaths stuck inside him, the pressure of Will’s hands feeling every one of his tendons; his veins pulse underneath, his body shaking in small spasms and twitches, while his temples gradually began to pound incessantly. Yet, pain was nothing but pleasure as he kept his eyes on Will’s; who consumed them in their stead, through his immense force, by his gaze and ruthless hold. Will was fuming with a still, calm intensity, boiling and burning beneath his collected appearance. His Will, who detested eye contact, did not falter on that front once – not allowing any last second of Hannibal’s waning life to slip with the mere flick of eyelashes in a blink. He began to smile, and Hannibal tried to, his mouth agape, hopeless to respond to his impulsive instincts to breathe, ignoring his body’s need for sustenance, for life itself. And despite that, Hannibal was content, his entire head aching, his eardrums ringing, his existence completely and fully held between two palms of a pair of hands, attached to arms, joining into shoulders, in turn to a neck, with a head on top facing him; the last shreds of his life should be for him, and him alone, Hannibal presumed, as he accepted Will’s desire unconditionally, lovingly so.

 

However, as his eyes were engulfed into a quick, merciless darkness, he found himself again, alive. but lonely most of all, having retreated from his fantasy nearly out of impulse alone. He took a breath, and noticed he had taken many more, no matter how softly they had been released: those sounds nothing unnatural to him, but uncommon, given his resilience. Often times, in fantasizing, he controlled his reactions to result in the minimum hint of them, yet – even as he wasn’t able to see his own expressions, Hannibal knew he had lost that inner sight.

 

But that wasn’t the only thing; as his hands pointlessly softened the creases on his suit, he could feel the space between his legs being tightened. He sighed at the realization, the pleasure of his vision transferring itself to reality, his member half hardened even after conscience had taken hold over the subconscious.

 

In his mind, he perused his possibilities: should he ignore it, draw while listening to his music, or practicing it, either option a way to distract himself once his arousal eventually faded. Or should he… Relieve himself, and if so, how?

 

He was about to consider them in earnest – as if casually picking his suit for the day, letting his head focus rather too much about it – but something stopped him from doing so. For once, Hannibal decided he had thought too much already; and that he’d prefer let his instincts run untamed, speaking louder than the now monotonous line of continuous, never-ending rationality. Acting according to chance was true to himself after all, so why should he dawdle, particularly when his member was almost clamoring for him to touch it?

 

Yet, instead of undressing, his eyes seemed to be drawn to the sight of the armrest of Will’s chair, as they had done so in his fantasy. He remembered once again his fingers, and with it, he stepped towards the armchair, slowly treading his hand aimlessly through it.

 

Almost by some strange spell, his hips were pulled to it, the bulge in his pants pressuring against the wood from above. Hannibal huffed, refusing to turn away from it now, his right knee positioning itself to rest on the seat comfortably as his other leg served as his balance. His waist motioned forwards and backwards, slowly at first, allowing his cock some time to fully harden, tightly growing against the fabric.

 

He breathed softly, his pleasure gradually surfacing in stronger surges, nerves making everything below his waist pulsate along, although not enough to warrant louder noises to flee from his throat to the open air of the room.

 

A part of him hoped, foolishly of course, that Wil would have forgotten something of his, catching him in the act as he flung open the door, Hannibal’s arousal entirely exposed to him – an advantage he would love Will to take. In a flash of his mind, he thought of him immediately taking hold of him for his own; or how he could merely choose to say nothing, and seat in the other chair, staring soundless and unmoving until he witnessed Hannibal come with Will’s name purposefully trailing off his lips.

 

Perhaps, before that, he would ask him what lead Hannibal to this state, and he would recite his fantasy out loud to him, obeying his order: only to feel Will’s hands on his throat from behind, urging Hannibal to move his hips until Will forced him to stop, controlling the strength applied onto his neck with cutthroat precision.

 

He would whisper:

 

‘’ _I could strangle you here and now, Hannibal. Would you like that?_ ’’

 

‘’ _Yes…_ ’’ he would groan back, breathless.

 

Will would smile, sweetly muttering harsh words to fill his insides through his ears.

 

‘' _Then I won’t give you that satisfaction. Although I would love to crush your bones with bare hands alone._ ’’

 

Hopeless Hannibal, with the sole company of his visions by his side, couldn’t help but moan at that, quickly biting it back upon his lower lip to keep his mouth from running freely at the mere, yet ensnaring though of Will denying him – pleasurable torture preferable to a fast, forgettable release.

 

His hips were ruthless in their incessant movement, his cock responding so wonderfully to the feel of his suit rubbing so strongly against the armrest. In a swift glance down, he saw the outline of a wet mark lining between his legs, only if barely, accentuating his peaking arousal. And Will, dearest Will, would grin at his enthusiasm, no doubt; whispering loudly into his ears, lips so near they could bite.

 

‘' _Strange how similar to an animal you look now… Rutting yourself like a dog begging to be put on all fours and fucked._ ’’

 

He would do his best to make every consonant resonate within, his voice speaking almost too real, too present for Hannibal; in turn, making him groan at the thought of the imagined Will – his lovely, merciless Will, roughly pulling down his pants just enough to expose flesh, lowering his torso and head with his hands unto the cushioned seat with all his might, finally answering to Hannibal’s heated, beastly desires, which certainly coincided with his. He would thrust into him with no abandon, a wolf huffing and puffing above his pleading, whining noises of ecstasy muffled onto the cushion. A hand of Will’s would hold his behind in place, while the other would slither down his back to hold Hannibal there through his neck, making it just as difficult for him to breathe; efficient enough to match with when he had tightened his throat once before.

 

Hannibal was still in motion, his hips going at it so vigorously now in order to recreate the pleasure of his mind’s design – that he noticed his forehead had become dampened with sweat. His perfectly combed hair, once neatly backwards, had let a few strands fall, and he reached with his left hand to fix them, only to tussle them all the more. He made no concerns to lower his breaths now, no matter how controlled they were in tone, he could not hold his teeth over his lips for a moment longer; he had bitten down so hard that they were sore red and aching.

 

The last of his reason reminded himself how much he was making his suit wet, ruining it somewhat for certain; but he could not care less. And why should he, really, when every flash of Will’s hands, of his body, of his power over him, was enough to stir him unimaginably so? A side of his almost wished Will could ruin his entire wardrobe – whether through sweat, through come, through blood; or all the three, regardless of who it truly belonged to.

 

He could always afford to buy more, after all.

 

At last, his legs began to tremble, signaling he could not repress his natural reactions any longer. Uncontrollable waves of pleasure took the form of shocking spasms as he shamelessly came through his pants, his right hand falling to the chair’s back so he could support his shaking, tense body forward. Hips thrusted until he was fully spent, uneven breaths mingling with groans and moans he had tried holding back with one more, fruitless bite to his twitching lips.

 

He calmed his erratic breathing in spades, raising his waist to move back from the armrest, his member still warm in its waning pulsations. Normally, Hannibal would think the wet, thick sensation tainting his suit would be nothing short of discomforting, or even embarrassing, but he couldn’t think of such a thing; hypnotized by senses alone. Once his conscience had spoken higher, however, was when he was thankful about not having any other sessions for the rest of the evening – and that he could undress his garments and put them to wash.

 

If he could clean away blood, he could certainly clean the darkened puddle between his legs.

 

* * *

 

 ‘’Good evening, Dr. Lecter.’’ Will greeted cordially, purposefully adding a hint of intimacy only they knew of, his name rolling off his tongue with a fusion of poise, ease and tension underneath.

 

‘’Hello, Will. Come on in.’’ Hannibal greeted in turn, holding his office door to politely let Will pass through, as he had done so many times before. But like everything, it wasn’t the same: Will used to enter the room in a rush, throwing his jacket and his present on the recliner, making certain their sessions would quickly come to pass, or to nervously explain the effects of his disease. But now, he walked slowly towards his seat, each step cautious, or rather deliberate, almost as if he knew Hannibal would be watching.

 

And watching he did, with a smile.

 

Instead of throwing his jacket, he had given it to Hannibal to hang, handing it over with a knowing, lasting smile blooming his lips, fingers nearly grazing. Will sat as Hannibal took care of his jacket, careful and precise not to leave any creases on it. In the corner of his eye, he could see Will close his eyes, breathing softly for a moment, and allowing his chest to expand and decrease along with it – making Hannibal wonder what was weighing on his mind to warrant Will trying to find calm within.

 

‘’So, what shall we discuss today?’’ Hannibal asked while he sat, tampering with the wonderful, tensed silence between them.

 

‘’Do we have to discuss something every time? Can the discussion be about whether or not do we need to discuss something?’’ Will remarked, teasingly, obviously, making Hannibal smile.

 

‘’If you don’t want to, you can just say so.’’ Hannibal replied. ‘’These sessions are for you and for you only, as you recall. Ultimately, conversing with me is your choice alone, Will.’’

 

Will didn’t respond right away, his eyes taking Hannibal’s entirely.

 

‘’But then again…’’ Hannibal remembered, his smile slowly waning. ‘’You wouldn’t have come here if you didn’t want to talk. Or is it merely obligation?’’

 

He smiled at the remark, knowingly so.

 

‘’Wanting to come and knowing what to say about are two different things.’’ Will mused. ‘’But yes. I do want to talk. As we’ve always done.’’

 

Hannibal did not reply immediately, letting his gaze wander off from Will’s to his hands – and how they lay onto the armrest. Suddenly, Hannibal felt his throat tighten slightly, his memory recalling to their previous session, and most of all, what he had done afterwards.

 

It had been cleaned of course, Hannibal wouldn’t let even a ghost of a dirty spot stay on everything he owned, but a part of him did wonder what could have happened if he hadn’t – and how Will would react.

 

He bit back those thoughts forming in his mouth, licking his lips with his tongue in between. Will raised an eyebrow at the sight, forcing Hannibal to realize he had been staring, following every hint of motion with his eyes, like a predator hiding through the underbrush before lunging at its prey.

 

‘’You tend to bite your lip often, Dr. Lecter.’’ Will remarked, smiling with a sliver of teeth cutting open his mouth. ‘’You need to be careful not to make it red. You’re already looking pale.’’

 

Hannibal stared back at him, remembering the sore and ache on his moaning lips far too accurately for his taste, his crossed legs tensing against one another at the flash of that particular memory - his face nearly flushing at the sight of the armrest he had once pressed unto to pleasure himself.

 

But Hannibal smiled back, regardless. He was aware of when or how to display particular kinds of emotion, pressing back when he felt it, or allowing it to surface when he wished to. So, he smiled, meeting with Will’s gaze head on, as to not let anything instinctual or spontaneous to speak higher than the well-kept control he had so carefully woven around him throughout his daily life.

 

‘’I’ll be wary of that, then.’’ Hannibal finally said, nodding his head as to thank Will for his ‘advice’.

 

‘’You’re welcome.’’

 

What was so incredibly enticing, Hannibal found time and time again, was how Will could unravel that woven poise and dignity with two words alone and eyes impaling through his insides…

 

…Only to pull out and consume every lie he’d ever told, like spilling, slick guts.

**Author's Note:**

> There was literally no excuse for this, except for the fact that I am a firm supporter of bottom! hannibal and I felt as if there was a severe lack of fanwork dedicated to it, so once the mere idea of Hannibal dryhumping the armrest of Will's seat appeared suddenly in my head, I HAD to write it.
> 
> Naturally, being the creative mind that I am with a LOT of time in my hands, I thought it would be great to make this part of a series of ficlets which the basic premise is: ''Hannibal and Will pleasuring themselves in questionable ways while thinking of questionable things'', that involves an overall theme of choking, ropes, (blood) and of course, that Hannibal is a bottom.
> 
> I hope you look forward to the next one! (They are set in chronological order by the way, all during the second season!)


End file.
